It doesn’t matter how many years have passed, the moment is still ingrained in our hearts and souls. Unfortunately, it helped to define a generation and an era. One of the most interesting memories I have of the Metropolitan Opera is when my mother and I were using the garage entry. She walked in ahead of us, and nodded to my mother. I thought my mother was going to have a fit. I’m not quite sure the performance or the date. I do remember it was in mid-November. As I watched her walking past the Met shop, I kept thinking about another time and another place, and that pink suit, as she struggled do deal with her husband, who was already dead by an assassin’s bullet.
In so many ways, it was the end of our childhood and our innocence.
That evening at the Met, I wasn’t interested in looking at her. No one else was, either. They were all watching John, Jr. So was I.
The other thing I remember about that day is the fact that it was the first time I prayed for someone. I was just a little kid, but I remember praying for his children. We were outside, at recess. Everyone was called back into our classrooms. We were sitting there, stunned. Suddenly, in the hall, I remember hearing people crying. One of the teachers opened the door. All she said was, “He’s dead.”